


Freefall

by BrassHorse



Category: Tatort
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Identity, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29076090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrassHorse/pseuds/BrassHorse
Summary: It's hard to move on. Kira Dorn tries her best to accommodate to a new partner at work, and Lessing - or his ghost - is there to help. Post "Der feine Geist".
Relationships: Lessing/Kira Dorn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Freefall

"Useless, pain in the ass, incompetent --"

She had more words on her tongue. So many that they piled up there on its tip and jammed her mouth, one refusing to go before the other. So she swept through the living room instead of saying anything else, breathed through her nose, and tried to let the annoyance wash off her.

"He's not that bad," said the soft voice from behind her left shoulder. It made her jaw muscles ache.

She snorted. "Did you see him this afternoon? He ran off with his tail between his legs." She felt her hands clenching at her sides and almost made an effort to relax them, before she remembered that Lessing wouldn't care. Lessing knew she would never hurt him, that her annoyance was only a thin veneer. Lessing would stay infuriatingly calm and reasonable and rational until she forgot to clench those fists and forgot to pace and could sit down and relax. "He's worse than Lupo!"

"I'm not sure one can be worse than Lupo," Lessing said, tinder-dry. "One can certainly be as bad, but even that's a stretch."

He never, ever rose to her bait. It was like arguing with a brick wall, except worse, because at least you didn't end up loving the brick wall even more by the time you'd lost the argument with it. "He's so green he's barely sprouted. I can't work with someone like that," she said instead of agreeing with him about Lupo. Because he was right.

She fell onto a chair, one elbow leant on the tabletop. Lessing approached soundlessly from behind and the gentle weight of his hand fell on her shoulder. She didn't look back.

"He'll grow up," he said, softly. "These things take time. Even we took time, remember?"

She shook her head. "It wasn't the same with us." She had always come clear with Lessing, she thought. He was as unflappable as she was impatient, and it had been like coming home. Like a hot bath after a long day. Like a jagged-edged puzzle piece finally slotting into place.

Lessing laughed, the quiet little chuckle that still made her heart light. His fingers dug gently into her shoulder, massaging the tight muscles there. "Maybe we were a little unusual. But don't forget: You didn't always know me. Take it from me, I remember."

She shrugged her free shoulder. "You weren't an idiot. It wasn't hard to work with you."

"Kira, you old romantic," Lessing teased. She could hear the smile in his voice. Another hand landed on her opposite shoulder, and strong thumbs dug into the muscles at the base of her neck. "Müller isn't as stupid as all that. He's just new. It'll take time to break him in. All he needs is a good breaker, and I happen to know one of the best there is."

She might have been taken in by the fond tone of voice, by the painful, relieving pressure on her neck and shoulders. At another time, in another place, when the person behind her was real flesh and blood and not a figment of her own imagination that she was too disturbed to shake off. Even so, she could feel the way her head bowed in response to his touch, exposing the tight knotted muscles for him. "I don't want to break in a new partner," she grumbled. "I spend half my time working on him and the other half wondering if he's doing his job right when I'm not with him. I can't get anything real done."

"Hmm," he said, so amiably it was maddening. "Could it be that it's not entirely his fault?"

Kira scowled and jerked her shoulders out of his grip. She hated how much she instantly regretted it, how tight the muscles still were, how the warm places where his hands had been were suddenly cool again. "No," she said loftily. "Did you see the report he turned in this evening? I've seen madmen with better handwriting! I bet he bought his way through school, he definitely couldn't have passed classes with that chicken scratch."

She heard his footsteps as he wandered across the room and when she made herself look, the expression on his face nearly melted her. Amusement held in check behind a dam of serious concern, that glint in his eyes that he got right before he kissed her or burst into laughter or said -

"Frau Dorn," in just that tone, shaking his head, and she felt the horrible burn of tears behind her eyes.

It trembled in all her muscles, the need to do something, say something, spit out the energy that made her skin feel too full. She was tired of the looks people gave her. She was tired of the little whispered discussions they had with Müller when they thought she didn't notice, giving him advice about how best to handle his tart, brisk new partner. She was tired of control, of not crying, of not being upset, of speaking calmly and happily to her idiot partner or else risking that he'd run off into a corner and shiver like a scared mouse.

"He's not you!" she meant to emphasise it, but choked halfway through, and it came out as half yell, half squeak. She could see on his face that he knew, as well as she did, that this was the real heart of it. Müller wasn't Lessing. Müller wasn't the one who had enchanted the heart she was certain couldn't be enchanted, who had come to town just to be near her, who had held her hand and recited poetry while she bore their child. Müller wouldn't know by the movement of her head which way she intended to go when chasing a suspect. Müller wouldn't flirt shamelessly with her while they drove to a crime scene, grab her ass as they approached a witness's house, duck into cover and kiss her while a criminal wasted bullets over their heads. Müller wouldn't take her insults and toss them right back with the dry, educated wit that had come to Lessing so naturally. She would have to pull her teeth and claws and be a clean, kind, quiet version of herself for him, because he would shiver and cringe at her rude commentary and cheerful criticism. He wasn't Lessing. Lessing had delighted in her thorny nature. And now Lessing was dead.

He came back to her in two long strides, and she found herself wrapped in his arms before she could move or even think. She knew he wasn't real. She was fanciful, not insane. But she sank against his chest anyway, buried her head in his shoulder and breathed in his familiar scent. He smelled like books and fresh air and their old apartment and long days on duty and long nights in bed, everything that said 'home' to her animal hind-brain. One firm, warm hand rubbed soothing stripes up and down her back. They sat in silence like that for a moment, drinking one another in. She didn't cry.

"And you don't feel like you, with him," he murmured, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. "Right?" Like he actually needed to confirm. He knew her inside out. He knew he was right, but she nodded anyway. Stich transferred, Lessing dead, Lupo so ... withdrawn. Nothing fit anymore. Certainly not the rough and ragged piece of the jigsaw that was Kira as she had been with them.

"It won't be easy," he said into her hair. "It won't be the same. But that doesn't mean it'll be bad." He kissed her forehead, her temple, her ear. "You were still Kira before you met me. You can get back to being Kira again, in time." The lips on her cheek rested for a moment, his smile against the tense muscle of her jaw.

She had never been able to resist that smile, or the way it warmed his blue eyes. Without her consent, her jaw loosened, her shoulders fell. She wrapped her arms tightly around him and breathed. "I just miss you," she sighed at last, letting the air in the words carry away the tense ball of anger and unnamable, inexplicable emotions.

"I'm still with you," he murmured back. The same words he had said as she held her gun on the woman who had murdered him, so close to pulling the trigger.

"It's temporary though," she managed. "Isn't it?"

She felt his shoulder rise and fall with his shrug. "I suppose so," he admitted, with a calm sanguinity that boggled her mind. "I expect I'll fade away eventually, when you and the Dwarf have adjusted. But you won't forget." Gentle fingers rested beneath her chin and tilted up her head. "You still belong here, whether I exist or not. There's room enough in the world for my Kira in all her facets." He winked and added, dryly, "You'll see, I'm right. I'm a ghost. I know things."

She laughed, a little wetly, and cuffed his shoulder. His eyes danced. "There," he went on. "Now, I know the Dwarf won't be home from your mother's until at least ten. We have some time to kill." He leant in to plant a gentle kiss against her lips, pulling back teasingly as soon as she made to reciprocate.

"Surely," she said, "your job is to discourage me from feeling like you're real. I don't think a trip to the bedroom is going to accomplish that."

He cocked his head a little, as if giving it serious thought. For a moment, she regretted saying it. Regretted the thought that he might back off, agree that being wooed up to bed by a ghost was quite insane, agree that she really ought to be trying to accept reality.

Then he quirked his brows a little and said breezily, "We'll start on all that in the morning, shall we? Promise me you'll try to go easy on Müller tomorrow, and I'll consider it a good enough step forward for tonight." The fingertips against her chin brushed backwards, feather light, across the curve of her jaw and the line of her throat. His touch may have been a phantom, a hysterical attempt by her to hold onto the past, but the prickling of her skin even at the mere memory was real enough.

"All right," she said. "I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry to have written this fic in English. I'm more than capable of hearing and comprehending German, but my writing couldn't do this justice in the language. And, though I seem to go against fan opinion on this one, I love Dorn and Lessing. I always have. Their obvious and open love for one another was always a good influence on my down days, and will continue to be in the future, I'm sure. So I wanted to wish them a fond farewell in my own way.
> 
> Please feel free to comment in English or German. I can read both quite well. Thank you for reading!


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